Which caused a stampede to the dining room windows. Even I looked.
“A real storm,” said Charlie admiringly.
“I’m going to turn on the radio,” announced Sam. And he did. He tuned the little kitchen radio to WSTO while we cleared the dining room table. As we carried plates and dishes back and forth, we heard one of the weather forecasters say, “Well, folks, the storm has hit. Better late than never! You can expect a foot or more of snow before this blows over!” He sounded jubilant. I guess he was pleased with his prediction.
“A foot or more!” repeated David Michael, awestruck.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Watson. He flicked off the radio. “We rarely get snows like that. We’re too close to the ocean.”
“Oh, bullfrogs,” said Karen.
“Maybe I should go home now,” Bart spoke up.
“Why don’t you wait awhile?” Watson replied. “Until it lets up a little. I don’t really want to drive in that.”
“Oh, I can walk,” Bart assured him. (The Taylors live close by.)
“Oh, no,” said Mom. “In the dark? In the wind?” (You’d think we lived in Alaska or someplace.)
“I’m tough,” kidded Bart.
“Seriously, just wait a half hour or so,” said Watson. “Then I’ll drive you.”
“Is that all right with your parents?” asked Mom. “Can you stay a little longer? When are they expecting you home?”
“Not for awhile,” said Bart cheerfully.
“Great. Let’s have dessert, then.” Sam had opened the door to the refrigerator. He pretty much lives in the fridge. He knows its contents by heart. “I hope that pie is still in the freezer,” he said, and opened the freezer compartment to check. Sure enough, there was the pie. Store-bought, frozen, blueberry. “Won’t this be excellent with vanilla ice cream?” Sam went on. (Of course, there was ice cream, too. It was behind the pie, where no one could see it, but Sam sensed its presence.)
Nannie stuck the pie in the microwave while Charlie and I set out plates, spoons, forks, and recycled paper napkins. Bart and my family and I ate warm blueberry pie à la mode in the kitchen. It was all very casual. Emily sat in her high chair, Sam and David Michael sat on the counters, Karen (for some reason) sat on the floor, and everyone else sat at the table.
I watched Karen eat her dessert. First she knocked the ice cream off the pie. Then she ate the pie filling. Then she ate the crust. Then she stirred the ice cream into vanilla soup. Then she drank her “soup” from the plate. Finally she ran into the bathroom, where apparently she checked herself in the mirror, because she charged right back out, crying, “Look at me! I’m sick! I have a blue tongue. And blue teeth. I have the winter blues.”
Bart burst out laughing. “That’s a good joke!”
I whispered to him, “I’m not sure she knows what she said.”
“Well, it’s still funny.”
We finished our desserts and piled the dishes in the sink. Karen began to prance around the kitchen, singing, “Oh, the weather outside is frightful. But the fire inside’s delightful. Thank you! Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Oh, wonderful,” I said to Mom. “What a good idea. Pie à la mode. We should be sure to give Karen a big load of sugar every night right before her bedtime. Especially when we have a guest.”
Mom smiled at me. “Honey, Bart has a little brother. I’m sure he’s used to the things kids do. Just relax.”
“Is he used to that?” I pointed to Karen, who was wearing her sweater-pants again. She was modeling them for Bart as she sang, “In the meadow we will build a snowman, and pretend that he is Parson Brown …”
“Well, Karen gets excited about things,” said Mom. “You remember how thrilling snow was when you were seven, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I replied. “I just hope I never danced around in sweater-pants, singing old songs in front of someone’s important boyfriend.”
Why, I wondered, had I wanted Bart to have a chance to get to know my family? They were embarrassing me beyond all reason.
Later, Bart and my brothers and Karen and I were watching TV. Watson was putting Emily Michelle to bed. Mom and Nannie were talking in the living room. “Kristy?” said Bart.
“Yeah?”
“I should probably go home now. It’s getting kind of late.”
“Okay.” I looked out the window. “Gosh, it’s snowing as hard as ever. I wonder if Watson will want to drive yet. Come on. We’ll talk to Mom.” Bart and I went into the living room. “Mom? Bart says he should be getting home, but it’s still snowing really hard,” I told her.
“I can walk,” Bart offered again.
“I don’t know,” said Mom.
“I’m going to check outside,” I announced. I opened the front door. Then I tried to push open the storm door. “Hey, it’s stuck,” I exclaimed. I pushed harder.
Watson appeared behind me and flicked on the porch light.
“Wow!” I cried. “Look at that! No wonder I couldn’t open the door.” Snow was piled against it, blown there by the wind. “Hey, this is a real storm,” I added. “Not just some snow shower…. How is Bart going to get home? He can’t go out in a storm.” (I knew Watson wasn’t about to haul out his car, even if he had just put on its snow tires.)
“Bart, why don’t you spend the night here?” suggested Mom.
Spend the night. What a ridiculously simple solution to the problem. Why hadn’t I thought of it? No. Wait. Bart spend the night at my house with my family? Was I on a suicide mission?
“Um, Mom,” I said hoarsely, “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
Unfortunately, Bart answered my mother at the same time. “Oh, thanks, Mrs. Brewer. That would be wonderful. I’ll call my parents.”
I was torn. I didn’t know whether to follow Bart to the kitchen or stay behind to question the sanity of my mother. Finally, I just mouthed “ARE YOU CRAZY?” to Mom, then followed Bart.
In the kitchen, Bart picked up the phone, dialed his number, and spoke to his dad. “Yeah, dinner was great…. Mm-hmm…. Blueberry pie…. So, anyway, Kristy’s mother said I might as well just spend the night. Is that okay? I’ll see you — I’ll see you — Dad? Dad?” Bart turned to me. “The line went dead,” he reported.
The words had barely left his mouth when everything went dark. I could hear appliances turning off throughout the house. The TV flicked off, a radio flicked off, even the refrigerator turned itself off.
“Uh-oh. Power failure,” I said needlessly.
From the TV room, Andrew shrieked. “Turn on the lights!” he cried.
“Andrew hates the dark,” I informed Bart. I found a flashlight, and we made our way into the den. “The storm must have knocked down the power lines,” I said to Andrew. “It’ll be okay.”
Andrew was hugging my legs and sniffling. Karen looked worried. “I hope the lights come on before Christmas,” she said.
And Bart said, “I’m glad I was able to talk to my dad.”
Mom and Nannie and Watson joined us in the den with some more flashlights. “We might as well go to bed now,” said Watson.
David Michael snorted. “Where’s Bart going to sleep? In Kristy’s room?”
“No, Toast-for-Brains,” I said. “We’ll give him a guest room.”
Going to bed had never been more excruciating. I couldn’t, of course, let Bart see me in my pajamas. This meant I had to wait until everybody was finished using the bathroom. Then I went in, quickly washed my face and brushed my teeth, and darted back to my room. I locked the door behind me before I changed out of my clothes. We are not supposed to sleep with our doors locked (in case of fire), but I didn’t want Bart accidentally sleepwalking into my room during the night or something. I lay awake until almost one o’clock, trying to figure out what to do, and also wondering what my friends had been up to that evening. At 12:53 I finally dared to unlock the door. Then I leapt into bed and huddled under the covers, very aware of the fact that Bart was sleepin
g just a couple of rooms down the hall.
How was a person supposed to relax under such conditions? And, oh lord, what would happen the next morning when I woke up, bleary-eyed and fuzzy-tongued? I could not let Bart see me that way.
I set my alarm for five-thirty.
My job at the Perkinses’ started at six o’clock on Wednesday evening, as soon as I had finished taking the BSC calls. On my way across the street, I realized it was snowing — just tiny little flakes, but they were better than nothing.
The house the Perkins girls live in, the one across the street from me, is pretty special. Guess why. It used to be Kristy’s house. She and her mother and Sam and Charlie and David Michael lived there before Kristy’s mom married Watson and the Thomases moved to his mansion. Myriah Perkins, who’s five and a half, sleeps in Kristy’s old room now. She has two younger sisters — Gabbie, who’s almost three, and Laura, who’s a baby. My friends and I love to sit for the Perkinses.
I knew that the girls (well, the older two) would be glad to hear about the snow, so as soon as Myriah and Gabbie opened the door, I said, “Surprise! It’s snowing!”
“All right!” Gabbie exclaimed, and bounced onto the porch in her sock feet.
“Whoa,” I said. “You’ll freeze with no shoes on. Come inside with me.”
“Mommy and Daddy are going to dinner at the Vansants’,” Myriah said as I ushered Gabbie inside. “The Vansants live way, way out in the country. They live on a farm. They have a horse!”
“Cool,” I said.
“Hello, Claudia,” Mrs. Perkins greeted me. She placed Laura in her bouncy chair. (The chair is suspended from the top of a door frame. It’s mounted on springs. Laura bounces happily in it every day now.)
“Hi,” I replied. “Hi, Mr. Perkins. Hi, Laura. Guess what. It’s starting to snow.”
“You’re kidding,” said Mr. Perkins. “Huh. The weatherman was right.”
“We’ll have to be extra careful on the roads,” said Mrs. Perkins to her husband.
“Oh, it’s just a dusting,” I went on. “No big deal.”
The Perkinses gave me instructions for the evening — what to fix for dinner, when to put the girls to bed, where to find the Vansants’ phone number. “We’ll be home before ten,” added Mr. Perkins.
“Okay, you guys. Who’s hungry?” I said when Mr. and Mrs. Perkins had left.
“Me!” said Myriah.
“I want Mommy,” said Gabbie.
“She’ll be here when you wake up tomorrow,” I assured her. “And I’ll tell her to kiss you good night when she comes home. Is that okay?”
Gabbie nodded.
“I would like her to kiss me, too,” said Myriah politely.
“Okay. Now — I am going to fix supper. Laura can bounce in her chair. Myriah, why don’t you and Gabbie keep a watch on the snow for me? You can give me a weather report at dinner. The living room window can be Weather Central, like on the news.”
“Yeah!” exclaimed Myriah. “Gabbie, come on. We have an important job to do.”
Mrs. Perkins had told me that a pot of leftover spaghetti was in the fridge. I heated that up in the double boiler while I threw together a salad. Then I set out Laura’s baby food.
“Dinner!” I called.
Myriah and Gabbie came running. As I lifted Laura out of her bouncy seat and placed her in her high chair, Myriah announced, “We have a weather report for you. Outside, it is very, very cold. We think the wind is starting to blow. And the snowflakes are bigger now.”
“There’s snow all over the grass,” added Gabbie. “Everywhere.”
Maybe I should have paid more attention to the girls’ report. But I didn’t. I was too busy serving spaghetti, feeding Laura, and trying to feed myself. Then, in the middle of all that, Myriah said, “I think the pets are hungry.”
“The pets!” I cried. I had forgotten to feed them. Mrs. Perkins had said to put their food out while we were eating dinner.
The pets are Chewbacca, a wonderful, lovable, but slightly crazy black Labrador retriever; a cat, R.C., which stands for Rat-Catcher; and a new kitten, Socks Sebastian Perkins, known as Socks. (His fur is orange everywhere except on his feet, which are white, so he looks as if he’s wearing two pairs of socks.)
I filled Chewbacca’s dish with yucky dog food, and the cats’ dishes with Kibbles. Then I gave them fresh water.
“Okay, Laura. Now you can eat,” I said, aiming a spoonful of mashed carrots toward her mouth.
Laura opened her mouth obediently. She took the carrot goo — but she didn’t swallow it. She smiled, then laughed, and the next thing I knew, I was wearing carrots across my front. Luckily, I had prepared myself for this possibility. I’ve fed enough babies to know that they shouldn’t be the only ones wearing bibs.
“I am so, so happy it is snowing,” said Myriah from the end of the table. “I don’t think I will have to go to kindergarten tomorrow.”
“Don’t you like kindergarten?” Gabbie asked her sister.
“Yes,” replied Myriah. “I do. It’s fun. But tomorrow the snow will be even funner. We can go sledding in the backyard.”
“And make a snowman!” added Gabbie.
“Or a whole snow family!” cried Myriah. “A snow mommy and a snow daddy and three snow girls and a snow dog and two snow cats.”
“You are going to be very busy tomorrow,” I said.
“That’s what happens when you’re five,” Myriah replied.
Myriah and Gabbie finished their supper and ate apples for dessert. Laura scarfed up her carrots and some beef baby food and drank some milk.
“Guys?” I said to Myriah and Gabbie. “I’m going to put Laura to bed in a few minutes. Can you play upstairs until I’m finished? Then I’ll come downstairs with you.”
I carried Laura up to her room. I was followed by Myriah and Gabbie, who detoured into Gabbie’s room to look at picture books.
“Okay, Laura-Lou,” I said. I laid her in her crib and took off her blue overalls. I changed her diaper. Then I slipped her into a fuzzy yellow sleeper. Finally, I switched on her music box and night-light, and turned off the lamp on her dresser. “Sleep tight,” I said, rubbing her back. I tiptoed out of the room.
From down the hall I could hear Myriah chanting, “Run, run as fast as you can.” And Gabbie chiming in with, “You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!”
The girls kept me busy that evening. They had invented a game they wanted me to play with them. They decided they needed milk and cookies. They wanted to watch a TV show, which I couldn’t seem to find, no matter how many times I flipped through the stations. They played a noisy game of tag with Socks, who kept running into small places where he couldn’t be reached.
Finally, I had to announce, “Bedtime.” I knew this would not be greeted with cheers or squeals of delight. However, I was somewhat surprised when, instead of “Do we have to, Claudia?” I heard ring, ring!
“Telephone!” cried Gabbie. “Can I get it?”
“I think I better,” I answered. “But you can say hello.” I picked up the receiver. “Hello, Perkins residence. This is Claudia.”
“Hi, Claudia. It’s Mr. Perkins.”
“Oh! Hi. Is everything all right?”
“Technically, yes. But … Mrs. Perkins and I aren’t going to be able to come home tonight. The roads are awful. They’re slippery, and most of them aren’t plowed. We left early, but we had to turn around and come back.”
“Wow,” I exclaimed. “I didn’t think the snow was that bad.”
“Neither did we, until we tried to drive in it. We’re at the Vansants’ house now, and we’re going to spend the night here. Do you think you could stay with the girls? I know it’s asking a lot. Or maybe you could take them over to your house. Are your parents home?”
“Yup. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll work this out. The girls will be fine.”
I let both Gabbie and Myriah talk to their parents for a few moments. When they’d finished, I call
ed my own parents and told them what had happened.
“I’ll be right over,” said my mother.
“Oh, you don’t have to come. Honest. It’s awful outside. We’ll be all right. And if anything does happen I can just call you or come over. Okay?”
“Okay,” agreed Mom.
We hung up. I could hardly contain my excitement. What an adventure this was! Baby-sitting by myself, overnight, for three kids, including a baby. I would have some story to tell my BSC friends. Suddenly, I felt like calling them. We could talk for a few minutes and catch up with each other. I wanted to find out how Stacey’s perm looked, whether Dawn was back from the airport …
“Claudia?” said a little voice. It was Gabbie. I stopped daydreaming and looked down at her. “Mommy isn’t going to kiss me good night tonight. You said she would, but she isn’t coming home.”
“Oh, Gabbers. I’m sorry,” I replied. “I didn’t realize we were having a big snowstorm. But you know what? Your mommy and daddy will be home tomorrow” (I hoped) “and they can both kiss you then. So I think you guys should say good night to Socks and R.C. and Chewy now. It’s almost bedtime.”
“Okay,” agreed Gabbie, looking tearful but brave.
Myriah and Gabbie found the cats. They said good night to them, and kissed their tails. Then they went off in search of Chewbacca.
You’d think a large, noisy dog would be easy to find. But the girls looked in Chewy’s favorite spots and didn’t see any sign of him.
“I bet he’s in the laundry room,” said Myriah.
No Chewy.
“Maybe he’s under the big table,” said Gabbie. “He takes naps there.”
We looked under the dining room table. No Chewy.
“Okay, we’ll search the house,” I announced.
The girls and I looked through every room. We looked in tiny places where Chewbacca couldn’t possibly fit. Gabbie even looked in Laura’s crib. No Chewy. We called and whistled and whistled and called.
“Chewy is missing!” Myriah announced tearfully.
“Calm down,” I said to the girls. “I’ll call Mom and Dad. They’ll know what to do. They can come over and help us.”
I reached for the phone, started to dial our number, and realized the phone was dead. No dial tone. “Uh-oh,” I said.